The Outsider
by LaVioleBlanche
Summary: Another lj prompt. Hopefully the OP won't mind me posting this here. Murdock is captured in Iraq and tortured in countless ways. When the Team saves him, is there really anything left to save? M for graphic torture and non-con. M/M
1. Help, I'm Alive

It's not the cliched cold, dark and dank basement that they throw him into. Instead, two large, sweaty men, followed by smaller but equally sweaty men with guns, drag Murdock, blindfolded and gagged, down what feels like a long hallway and toss him into a small stone room that has to be about 300 degrees. The door clangs shut (metal door, he thinks; they must've installed it just for prisoners like himself) and he is alone. It takes him twenty-three seconds to get out of the cuffs, three to yank off the blindfold, and a whole fifty-one excruciating seconds more to peel the tape away from his mouth, making little "ow, ooh, ouch" noises all the while. When he's successfully removed all bindings and folded the tape into a small, somewhat sticky crane, he takes a moment to examine his surroundings. There is only one window, small and reinforced with iron bars and just at the right angle to cause the gruelingly hot Iraqi sun to pound down on him no matter where he stands. In one corner a metal pole extends up from the floor and into the ceiling.

"Well," he says at length to his dog. "Looks like it's just you and me, Billy ol' boy. Got any cards on ya?"

Billy does not. After finding that he does not have any board games on hand either, Murdock sighs and seats himself with his back pressing against the cool pole. His jacket, hat, shoes and pants were taken when he was caught, but he refuses to remove any more clothing. He won't concede to discomfort; he was caught in a burning building once and it was at least... three degrees hotter than this room. _Of course_, he muses, _Face was with me in that building, so it wasn't as worrying as this place_.

The door opens and three men enter. The difference is immediately noticeable between these men and the grunts who brought him in; the man in front is tall, all hard edges and war-hewn muscle, with a gleam of dangerous cunning in his dark eyes. The men on either side of him are equally impressive, filling out their uniforms and holding their Kalashnikovs with easy confidence.

"Captain," the frontman says almost cordially, his accent occasionally sending his tone up or down a scale in sounds that didn't exist in Western languages. "How you are feeling?"

"Pretty darn good, how 'bout yourself?" The pilot responds quickly with a grin. He's been in situations like this before, and worse. He'll be damned if he's gonna give these bastards anything; they can beat the hell out of him and he'll whistle through it. Maybe, if it gets really bad, he'll divulge the secret of his favorite dip recipe.

"I am tired, Captain." The man returns the smile, and with a sickening jolt Murdock recognizes it as Face's smile, all suave charm and reassuring casualty. The thought hits him like a blow to the nose, disorienting, knocking him off-balance for an instant. He shakes himself and meets the man's gaze, refusing to ask the expected question.

"Are you tired yourself, Captain? You are quiet."

"Me? Nah, I was just listening to my dog, Billy. He wants to know if we might bother you fellas for some trash bags."

The two armed men pause, brows furrowing as they translate inside their heads, then glancing around for Billy as if actually wondering how the prisoner managed to smuggle a dog in. The leader smiles again, a crafty little half-smile, and shakes his head. "No, I am afraid not. But I am understand, now, why your title is 'Mad Howling'."

"'Howling Mad'," Murdock corrects, because c'mon, man, at least get the name right.

"'Howling Mad', of course. Captain Howling Mad Murdock, do you know why I am tired?" This guy, whoever he is, really likes titles, it seems. Murdock is tempted to ask him what his rank is, but A: he doesn't look like the type to have a military title and B: Murdock doesn't want to give anything away, show any sign of interest. He shrugs noncommittally and the man frowns slightly and nods to the soldier on his right. The soldier moves so quickly that Murdock just has time to register the nod as a "Thundercats are go for gratuitous violence" nod before the butt of a gun is harshly introduced to his stomach. He wheezes, curling in on himself, and his vision goes a little fuzzy. He is more prepared for the next blow, tightening his abdomen an instant before it connects. He manages not to crumple and out of the corner of his eye he sees the soldier almost nod in approval before stepping back. The man, who Murdock has decided to call Jaffar, steps in and bends down, grabbing a handful of the American's hair as he answers his own question.

"I am tired, _Captain_, of your people in my land. Do you know what I was before your soldiers came?" The cunning gleam has become that all-too familiar glint of murder and insanity.

"Pediatrician?" Murdock guesses, trying not to wince.

Jaffar laughs and shakes his head. "I was in prison, Captain. I was being held for my crimes, and were it not for a group of American soldiers and their bombs, I would still to be there. So, thank you."

"No problem, I'm sure," the pilot mutters as he feels the hand in his hair tighten.

"Do you know what I am now?"

"The Mad Bomber," Murdock decides after consideration, "What bombs at midnight."

This is met by more confused glances from guard to guard and another amused smirk from Jaffar. "No, Captain. What I am now is free man. Strong man, with many more strong men to follow me. I am powerful, Captain, and you and anyone who comes for you will learn this."

The next strike of the gun sends Murdock falling down into the dark, the image of a crooked smile following him.


	2. Wave of Mutilation

When he wakes again, he has been re-cuffed, hands behind the pole, and his tee-shirt and boxers are gone. A nice big bruise is forming on his belly, and judging by the throbbing, another on his head. He tests the cuffs, twisting his hands to feel along their edges, and knows that he will not be able to pick them. He is encouraging Billy to chew through them when the door clangs open once more.

"Captain."

It's Jaffar, of course, and he's unaccompanied save for a large black briefcase. He's lost his suit, as well, and looks almost casual in slacks and a loose linen shirt. He smiles and sets the case down, popping it open and shifting through whatever's inside.

"Howdy," Murdock replies. "You're lookin' a little less tired; did you take a nap?"

"Ah, Captain, I have been far too busy for napping. I have been hunting the information." Something inside the case goes clink, followed by what sounds like a lighter and the pilot is absolutely burning to know what's inside because he is one curious to a fault (the fault usually being that his curiosity gets him injured). He keeps himself from leaning forward, though, and does his best to continue his facade of calmness.

"Really? You been to the library or something? Or on the internets; I hear them internets is mighty useful for information gathering. You get Wi-Fi out here?"

"No, no, I have been asking the questions of a few people. It has been most helpful." Another clink, and a faint smell... smells like...

"Oh?" No, no, don't think about it, it's not. It's just your crazy mind playing tricks on you. It's not...

"Yes, I have spoken to a few of your friends."

Murdock laughs, or tries to, and it comes out a little too high-pitched because there's no mistaking the smell now. "Friends? Jaffar, I think whoever you spoke to musta been pullin' your leg; I'm not real bully in the friends market."

"No, so I have learned," Jaffar says, not seeming to notice his new name. Or maybe that really is his name. Maybe Murdock is slightly psychic. "But as I have also learned, you have a few very close friends. The infamous A-Team: Colonel Smith, Sergeant Baracus, and Lieutenant Peck, yes? I am told that they are not at the camp; I would like to know where they are."

"How should I know? I'm crazy!"

The Iraqi sighs. "Yes, which is the pity. Or, from your point of viewing, it could be a good thing; I doubt any sane man would still be so after we are through." He smiles again and lays out a cloth on the floor, almost ceremonially. "As I was saying, I spoke to a few others that we have here, and one knew of you. A doctor, a man called Farnsworth."

Murdock's eyes widen slightly, horrible realization striking. Shit. Farnsworth is- was, probably- a good doctor, maybe the best they had, and so dedicated to the health of his camp that he had somehow gotten ahold of Murdock's file (they'd thought that all his medical files had been destroyed, eaten, or burned somehow but this guy had found one). He knows the pilot's history, knows about his background, his phobias... and now he watches as Jaffar removes several items from his briefcase and lays them reverentially own on the cloth, like a surgeon preparing for an operation. A scalpel. A small, handheld, electric blowtorch. A pair of wire strippers. A screwdriver. A pair of kitchen shears. Forceps. A small ball-peen hammer. And then, with a final, magician-doing-a-fancy-trick flourish, a jar.

That smell.

He struggles to keep his terror from showing, to smother years of phobic revulsion and horrific suppression, but it must be clear in his eyes, because Jaffar laughs and gives the jar a shake, sloshing the contents. "Yes, the doctor told me of your fear of the ammonia. Very interesting. I hope it will prove useful."

He unscrews the lid and Murdock abandons all pretense of coolness; he squirms and writhes and kicks to get away, but Jaffar just sets the open container down, just out of kicking range, the smell, that horrible smell assaulting the pilot from every angle, a thousand times worse than the unbearable sunlight or the beating or the thought of torture. He strikes his head against the pole, trying to regain control or at least knock himself out again. The escaped Iraqi convict is smiling, grinning as he observes the Southerner's struggles.

Murdock...

The voice comes from nowhere and everywhere, inside his head like someone is whispering in his ear. He slows but doesn't cease trying to kick the jar over.

Murdock, Face murmurs over the madman's shoulder, It's okay, Murdock. What're you so scared of? It's just a jar of ammonia; we've been in worse scrapes, right, buddy? Don't you worry your crazy little head. We'll find you. El Diablo, right?

The pilot giggles a little, nervous and scared and more than a little mad. "Esta el Diablo..." He sings, grinning. "El Diablo..."

Jaffar seems a little disappointed that the ammonia hasn't snapped Murdock, but he raises the screwdriver and the torch and smirks, thin-lipped. "Not to worrying. That is only to get you... in the mood, you say?" The torch spits out a tongue of blue flame and he holds the tip of the screwdriver to it.

Murdock keeps singing. He belts out song after song, first El Diablo as the screwdriver begins to glow, then Ein Männlein steht im Walde as Jaffar turns off the torch and approaches, grabbing the American's right leg and pinning it. He keeps singing, moving on to Mon Petite Ami as he feels the white-hot freezing burn of the brand searing into his thigh. He screams his way through a few Dengue Fever songs as the hot metal pierces through the soft spot under his knee.

Ten minutes or ten years later, Jaffar pulls the cooling screwdriver free with a schluck sound, blood and bits of scorched skin and muscle clinging to it.

"I admire you, Captain," he says as he replaces the gore-slicked tool on the cloth, staining the white fabric as his fingers hover over the other options. "But you will speak before I have finished. What shall we try next?"

The sadistic ex-con carefully lifts the forceps and takes hold of Murdock's left leg. "I think I shall work my way to upwards." Without explaining further, he clamps the tool down on one of the prisoner's toenails and yanks.

Murdock throws his head back once more, gritting his teeth as he tries and fails not to let a strangled scream rip from his throat. He wishes he could kick with his free leg, but Jaffar is smart and he obviously thought of that beforehand; the puncture under his knee has rendered the pilot's right leg useless. Well, this is a new one, he thinks distantly. Ain't never had my nails ripped out before. Wonder if he'll gouge my eyes out?

Another wrench of the forceps and his smallest toenail rips free. It's a weird sensation, he notices; not really painful at first. When the nail is pulled, there's a kind of numbness, like the toe is in shock. He can feel the blood leaking down his foot. By the time a third nail is being pried up, though, the first two feel like they are burning, throbbing agonized heat working its way up his ankle. He forces himself to breath, puffs of air bursting out erratically. At last, when there are no more nails in the foot, Jaffar returns the forceps and grabs the hammer.

Hours later, Jaffar drops the bloody hammer, letting it land on the ground next to the scalpel. He is sweating, and his arms are bloody up to the elbow. Pushing a loose black hair out of his eyes, he smiles and says, "Well, Captain, I can see that we have made some progress, but we shall stop for a time, to let you regain some feeling."

I got plenty of feeling, Murdock wants to inform him, but his jaw hurts too much from being clenched for so long, and he can only make tiny, hoarse sounds through his raw, bleeding throat as Jaffar admires his handiwork.

"Well," the Iraqi says after a moment, "Maybe one last thing for now. You look so- inviting, I think word is."

It takes a few seconds for the words to sink in, and when the realization of what they mean hits Murdock tries once more to get free, hoping that maybe his freshly-shattered, oddly-angled elbow will allow him to maneuver his way out of the cuffs. It doesn't, though; the only reward he gets for his effort is blinding pain. By the time his vision has cleared, Jaffar has unlocked the shackles, turned the prisoner around, and re-locked them. Unable to support his weight, Murdock's knees give out and he collapses, held half-upright by sheer will and his screaming, broken arms. He feels the heat of Jaffar's body settle between his helplessly splayed legs, hears the zipper open. All he can do is grunt and curse in whatever language comes to mind as he feels the other man invade him, and pound in with a brutal pace.

Chin up, ol' boy, the British voice in his head (whose name is Constable Eric Finch) tells him. Just one more thing to endure; keep it up and you'll get a lolly.

But the sound of Jaffar's guttural groans and harsh breathing drowns out Finch and Murdock nearly bites through his tongue when he feels the ex-con's tongue work its way up his neck.

Me engine's cannae tak much more o' this! They can tak mah toenails, but they cannae tak mah split personalities! That's Angus, screaming from the back of his mind, and he almost chuckles at the thought before a sharp thrust sends Angus cowering back into the dark. The smell of ammonia claws at him, makes his eyes water and his nose burn and his ragged throat contract as he gags.

Murdock.

Face's voice is strong and clear and it shatters reality's grip on his mind. For a few blissful moments, the pilot drifts free in a hazy cloud of madness and trauma and hallucination.

It's okay, Murdock, Face tells him, and he believes those words implicitly because it is Face that says them; Face is a liar and a conman, but he never lies to Murdock, doesn't need to con him. When Face says it's okay, it is, even if it's only imaginary Face, even if Murdock is hopelessly and literally fucked.

It's okay, Murdock. It's okay.

And then he is yanked back to the real world as something rips inside him and with a final groan, Jaffar finishes. He pulls out and steps back, tucking himself back into his slacks and brushing himself off.

"Now I will leave you for a while," he announces, like he honestly expects Murdock to be listening. "But I will be back soon. This time was just what you call... get-to-know. A meeting. It is important, on the first day, to break the body. After this, the mind." (Joke's on you, the pilot thinks, haha, my mind's long gone. Haha.) "Next time, I will bring a few other tools. Nothing special; things I have picked up over the years. Soon, we will become much closer. You'll see."

Murdock hears him replace everything in the case but the jar, which still sits like a patient specter, and turn to leave. His footsteps scrape against the rough stone floor, then halt halfway to the door.

"Ah," his deep, accented voice was thoughtful. "But if I leave you for very long, the guards may decide to take advantage of your situation. How shall I keep them from you while I am gone?"

Put up an electric fence, the lunatic wants to suggest. Instead, he hears the case open. Hears the footsteps coming closer.

The fear twists inside his gut and despite himself he twists his neck, hearing it crack, and has just enough time to glimpse the sunset light gleaming against the blade before agony explodes inside him, sharp slicing and the rush of blood where he was torn only a minute ago. He can't stop the scream as he feels Jaffar twist the razor blade, embedding it deeper, then pull his hand away.

"I will be back," the Iraqi promises.

~!~ ... ~!~

He can't remember how he got here. Shouldn't that mean something? He's pretty sure he heard somewhere that if he can't remember how he got here, he's not really here. Right? Only he can't remember who told him that. He doesn't know how long he's been here. He can't remember who he is. Where he's from. He can't remember much of anything from before he came here. Hasn't he always been here, in this room, waiting for the next round of torture to start?

Only...

He remembers...

A smile- a pair of eyes- a face...

A face?

A Face...?


	3. The Wreckoning

It's daytime (judging by the heat, not the light- his eyes are swollen shut) when he hears a loud bang from down the hallway, followed by the sound of something being dragged. He hears each door being opened, clanging metal against earth and stone. If he had the capacity anymore, he would wonder what's going on. If he'd had a drink in the past two days, he would call out, or sing. If his legs weren't useless, he'd try to push himself into a sitting position. As it is, all he can do is wait for his door to open, hoping that whichever guard it is has learned about the razor and will just beat him and not try anything else. The first guard that attempted had staggered away, clutching his crotch and swearing. Jaffar had been so amused by this that he replaced the razor each time he finished with the prisoner. It took another three guards with blood-soaked pants to get the message across to the others.

He hears distant gunfire, and another explosion, but none of it registers. The door screeches open, footsteps shuffling.

"Jesus."

Nope, he would say if his jaw weren't shattered, Try the next room.

"I found him!" The voice in the doorway is American, and vaguely familiar. "Guys, I found him! He's- god, he's..."

More shuffling, followed by an intake of breath, the smell of cigars and cologne and a burst of expletives.

It's all so weirdly familiar. He wishes he could open his eyes. He hears footsteps coming closer and tenses in spite of himself; what else can they possibly do to him?

He's completely unprepared for the gentle touch that fumbles, shakingly, across his wrists, for the sudden looseness of the cuffs as his hands fall to the ground.

"Jesus," the voice says again, "He's covered in formaldehyde or something."

"Ammonia," another voice, older, says from the entrance. "He has a phobia about ammonia, remember? This Rahim guy really did his homework."

"Motherfuckers," a third person says, the one that shouted the string of swears.

"Is he conscious?" The second voice asks.

"I-I don't-"

A pair of hands sliding under him, turning him so carefully onto his back. Fingers tangle in his hair, then glide over his brow and down to his eyes, so light that he barely feels it. With all his might, he forces his swollen, ruined lips to move as he pushes air through them.

"He's awake! He's awake, he's talking!" The voice is loud, close to his ear.

"What's he saying?"

"I'm not..." Warm breath against his chin, soft fingertips on his, clutching his unbroken hand. "He's... he's singing." The voice comes out in a strange, hysterical half-giggle. "He's singing. El Diablo."

"Crazy," the third voice states.

With a final effort, he makes himself push one eye open a crack. At first, all he sees is white light, painful and blinding after so much darkness. Then the light bleeds into shapes, colors. He sees the form of the person holding him. A pair of eyes. A mouth that's normally wide in a grin, now pulled and tight with worry. A face.

"It's okay, Murdock. We've got you; it's okay."

And Murdock believes him.

~!~

He can't tear his eyes away, not even when a stray guard appears and B.A. has to fire over Face's shoulder, right in his ear. He can't look away from the fragile, twisted thing that his friend, his closest friend in the whole world, has become. Murdock is covered in blood, his dirty blonde hair streaked red and crusted brown. His limbs are mangled, like he's been chewed up by some giant monster and spat back out. His toes are a red, raw mess, his fingers shredded, probably from clawing at the wall. His jaw hangs funny, swollen and crooked. His whole body is mottled, purple and blue and green and yellow with bruises. It's impossible to tell where which trail of blood is coming from. When he'd first entered the room, the conman is ashamed to admit, he wouldn't have even recognized the pilot were it not for the tattoo, almost invisible under layers of blood and ammonia and shit and piss. The second he saw that, every fear and hope he'd been fighting for a week hit him like a train.

He's carrying Murdock, cradling him like a bride, as they make their way through the rubble that was a hallway before they arrived. B.A. is bringing up the rear, gun leveled at the skull of Rahim Salman, who is handcuffed and staggering from the numerous "accidental" falls he's taken since they found him trying to disguise himself as a prisoner. Hannibal'd had to move quickly to keep his men from beating the Iraqi to death, cuffing him and ordering them to keep looking for Murdock. When they'd found the pilot, the colonel had to physically block them from the ex-con.

"We take him back to base," he'd said sternly. "And when we get him back there we'll let him get to know just how forgiving a camp full of American soldiers really is. I say we start by introducing him to the squad of Green Berets that Murdock saved from that roadside bomb."

Face and B.A. had had no choice but to agree. At least, Face thinks, the sight of Rahim's face when he realized the sentence he'd just been given is some small satisfaction. Murdock makes a tiny, agonized sound and the younger man tries once more, unsuccessfully, to shift his friend into a less painful position in his arms. He's almost grateful that the pilot passed out when Face picked him up.

They duck under a crumbling, scorched doorway and make for the waiting chopper, the pilot, a man who owed them a favor since they came to his rescue in a scuffle with Black Forest, sitting anxiously behind the controls.

Face thinks once more about just how bad it was with Murdock gone. A week, and nothing. They hadn't heard from any of their contacts, hadn't been able to track down any informants. All of their skills, all their great legendary A-Team powers had been useless. Hannibal couldn't base a plan on nothingness. B.A. couldn't beat the air into giving up information. Face couldn't charm an empty, burning shell of a helicopter into telling them who had dragged their pilot away and disappeared into the desert after he'd saved the Berets. When a soldier-turned-mercinary had defected from Rahim's little death squad and showed up in camp, claiming to know of a mad pilot being held and tortured, the team had jumped on the trail like a cobra locking its jaws around a rat. Once they found the location of the hidden prison, they called in a few favors and got a pilot, a huey, and enough ammunition to sink Hawaii. B.A. didn't even complain about flying; he just armed himself to the teeth and climbed aboard.

They approach the copter, wary but unhurried. The few remaining guards are long gone, scampering away to seek new employment. Face stumbles a little, cursing the stupid camel spider that has scurried into his path, and the motion is enough to jolt Murdock awake again.

He squirms, his lips moving, and his fingers curl into his friend's shirt as his face contorts in agony.

"Oh, shit, Murdock, I'm sorry," Face says, trying to simultaneously slow down and speed up, torn between wanting to walk more carefully and wanting to get onto that helicopter as soon as he possibly can. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry," he says with each step, and the insane Ranger shakes his head ever-so-slightly, eyes still screwed up in pain, and mouths more dry, leaf-rustle words. "What? What is it?" The con artist tilts his head down, trying to hear over the rotors of the chopper. Murdock draws a breath as deep as his broken ribs will allow and forces the word out.

"R... raz... r'zor..."

Face doesn't understand at first. He can only watch helplessly as his friend's thin, crooked arm moves shakily, hand curling as if gripping something, and points.

"Ra... zor. H-hurtsss..."

He sees the blood. He sees the pilot, his pilot, wince and try one more time to shift away from the pain, away from reality. He sees Rahim glance back and go wide-eyed. With a titanic effort, Murdock shifts a leg, and Face sees the gleam of steel. He looks up, and suddenly everything is in slow motion, and he sees Hannibal asking what happened, sees B.A. recognizing the expression in Face's eyes, and at the edge of his vision, he sees Rahim smile.

He isn't aware of drawing his gun, but suddenly it is in his free hand and he isn't aware of aiming it, isn't aware of firing it but suddenly there is a hole in back of each of Salman's knees, and then another in his shoulder, and his thigh, and his crotch, and Face keeps firing at Rahim's groin until his gun only makes a clicking sound. Hannibal is shouting, Rahim is screaming, the pilot in the copter is yelling, asking what the fuck is going on, and Face is screaming, screaming and swearing and howling, fucking _howling_. He feels Murdock, limp once more, so light in his arms, unconscious but alive, alive but broken, and he drops the gun into Hannibal's hand. B.A. is quiet, watching Rahim writhe and groan in the sand like he's thinking about finishing the job, but then he bends down and hauls the Iraqi over to the chopper.

"Jesus, Face," Smith has gone white, and Face doesn't think he's ever seen the colonel look so shocked before. "I know it's bad; I know he's a son of a bitch and he needs to die, but Jesus. What just happened?"

Without answering, Peck reaches down and gingerly tugs out the razor. It's gone rust-colored and is wet once more with fresh blood from all the movement and he holds it up briefly before dropping it into the sand. Hannibal's eyes follow it, and his brow creases and his jaw goes hard and he looks back up at his lieutenant and nods once.

"We'll get them both back to base and have the doctors look at them." His gaze drops down to the brutalized form in Face's grip, covered only by the young Ranger's jacket, and he nods again. "Let's go, Face."


	4. Straight To Hell

(Aaaaaugh, flats are the bane of my existence. This post would have been waaayy sooner if I had not gotten one. Yay, several pop-culture references in this chap. Catch them all and win a quicker update!)

For three days, Face watches Murdock weave in and out. Sits next to his bed as he comes to, screaming through his bandaged jaw, and slips back under the morphine tide. Holds his hand when the nurse comes by to change his bandages and doesn't even notice that the nurse is practically waving her D-cup cleavage in the con artist's face. At first, Hannibal and B.A. offer to take turns watching over the pilot so Face can get some rest. He just stares blankly at them, like he doesn't understand the question.

On the fourth day, Murdock opens his eyes, reaches for the pencil, and writes, HoW's JaFFaRaHIM?

It takes Face a second to figure out what JaffaRahim means. He shakes his head and glances down at his hands, folded across his lap. "He, uh... he didn't survive the surgery."

oH.

"Yeah."

THaT's good. HE Was HoRRIbLE, buT I doN'T THINk I WaNTEd HIM To go To TRIaL. you WouLd HaVE goTTEN IN TRoubLE FoR sHooTINg HIM aNd IT WouLD HaVE jusT bEEN a REaL CLusTERFuck.

Face laughs, surprised at the sound of it, and watches his friend's eyelids begin to droop once more. He leans in and, before he can stop himself, plants a (strictly platonic, he tells himself) kiss on Murdock's forehead. He pauses, realizes what he's doing, pulls away, ready to explain himself, and sees Murdock, eyes closed, swollen lips curving into a sleepy smile.

Face is unaware of the blush and goofy grin he's sporting until he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the bed as he stands. Coughing a little as he wipes the expression from his visage, he casts another glance at the now-dozing pilot, assures himself that Murdock will be fine if he leaves for just a few minutes, and slips out the door as silently as possible.

The base is so much quieter without the insane bundle of energy that people know as HM Murdock. At first, Face thought it was just him, missing his comrade's antics, but then he overheard somebody from the next tent over complain to his companions that it just wasn't the same around here without that psycho on the grill, and then a squad of guys from the other side of the base, halfway through a jog, stopped by to ask what had happened to the crazy fella that caused all those explosions last month, and then a fucking general came by, wondering when that lunatic would be well enough for maneuvers, 'cause he has some new pilots and he wants to show them exactly how not to fly if they want to live, and at that point Face realized that it's not just him. Everything really is dull, muted, grey without Murdock. Right now, the encampment is even more so; a lot of squads have been sent out on various missions, and even more left to do "voluntary recon" when they heard that the Green Berets were about to get their hands on the sunuvabitch that had done all that shit to that one loony pilot.

Lieutenant Peck strides purposefully across the base, weaving between tents and Jeeps and lean-tos in the watery pre-dawn. The Berets' tents are at the edge of the American camp, slightly separate from everybody else's. It's just a small, unassuming ring of camo tents, with a latrine in the center. The Berets (and a few men and women from other regiments) are all crowded around the outhouse, silent, watching something. Face steels himself and approaches.

As he draws near, he realizes that the silence is one of grim amusement, the kind that Green Berets are famous for. Each man has a small, twisted smirk on the corner of his mouth, arms folded across his chest. All eyes are on the latrine. Face doesn't break the silence; he knows better. Instead he moves through the cluster of stony forms, to the front. They move aside for him; they know him. One man, his eyes hidden by a low-tilted cowboy hat and tangled black hair, lays a hand on his shoulder and nods with a satisfied air. Face turns toward the Port-A-Potty.

The door is open, and there's a Beret standing over the open hole in the ground, holding a rope that extends down into the dark. The guy next to Face gives a voiceless command, and the rope is hauled up, foot by foot. Soon, a shape emerges from the pit, slick and stinking and foul. Face nearly gags, the incredible stench washing over him, raw human sewage and blood and decomposing flesh. The thing at the end of that rope is almost impossible, at first, to recognize as human. He has to remind himself that no, it's not some weird movie prop or modern art piece. Just as he's wondering how long it's been dead, it moves.

It squirms and gasps and retches and vomits black-brown-red, blood and shit and bile. It screams hoarsely and sucks in a breath to hurl curses at them all, then prayers to some god that's clearly not listening, then more swears, then back to sobbing, choking prayer.

"Hallelujah, Jaffar," Face says, shark-grinning, and the sniper next to him (he's pretty sure he's a sniper; no one else is that quiet and creepy) chuckles low and adds something in Spanish that a few of the others laugh at.

The wretched leftovers of Rahim Salman struggle against the rope once more, the stumps where the Berets chopped off his legs jerking uselessly. He rants at them. Roars. Shrieks. Bargains. Sobs. Begs. When he finally goes quiet, either from exhaustion or fumes, a woman in the crowd raises her pistol and fires once, glancing his wounded shoulder. It's enough to set him off again, and they all laugh.

And Face laughs.

He laughs at the man who tortured his friend, who crushed and soiled and ruined the best thing in the world. He watches impassively as the sniper steps up, clutching a huge hunting knife, and makes a dozen small cuts all over Rahim's body, to help spread the massive infection. He watches as they lower the captive man, screaming once more, back into the pit. He doesn't wince or shudder or turn away, because every time he touches Murdock, he feels the pilot flinch, because he knows the nightmares will last for ages, because he's afraid, absolutely terrified, that the pain, the dread and sorrow he sees in Murdock's eyes will never, ever go away.


	5. No One Sleeps When I'm Awake

He swims upward into wakefulness, kicking his way through the black sea of drugged sleep, but does not open his eyes yet. The pain is there, as familiar now as the weightless sensation of takeoff, but at least it's cushioned by the latest round of morphine. Grunting, he shifts and fumbles for the bed adjuster. Warm fingers brush his and he feels the plastic remote pressed gently into his palm. A wisp of steam against his splinted nose carries a smell he remembers from ages ago, the smell of his grandparents' house in the mornings and home and safety and...

"Face...?" Murdock opens his eyes and there he is, that trademark smile and meticulously tussled hair, sleeves rolled up, sitting at the pilot's side.

"Hey. How you feeling?"

"Mkay. How long's it been?"

Face glances at his watch. "You slept for about... three hours this time. That's good. You didn't seem to have too many nightmares, either."

The Southerner nods. "I meant, how long've I been in here?"

"About a week."

Murdock sighs. "That's what I thought, but I wasn't sure if maybe I'd been time-travelling again."

Face chuckles. "At least you can talk now. Doctor says you're healing really well."

Blinking away the sleep-induced muzziness, Murdock notices that there's a smear of something doughy-white on the con artist's cheek. There's another blob of the same stuff on his chin, just below his mouth. Frowning, the lunatic reaches out with his right hand and wipes away the smear, thumb rubbing against his companion's namesake.

"Uhh..." Face goes pink, his mouth slightly open, eyes wide.

Confused at his friend's reaction, the wounded man holds up his hand, displaying the substance. "You have a little something..."

"Oh. Uh. Yeah. It's, uh, it's batter." Templeton stammers as the pilot's digit travels down to catch the second trace of goo. His thumb swipes clumsily over the Lieutenant's lower lip, and for some reason Face's blush (which Murdock had attributed to the heat) turns to a deep red. When the Captain pops the tip of his thumb into his mouth to taste the batter, Peck's own mouth goes dry.

"Mm," Murdock comments, oblivious. "What's the batter from?"

"Oh," Face glances down, looking almost sheepish, and lifts a plate of chocolate-chip pancakes from his lap, holding them up and offering them in a manner that, had he been anyone but Face, would have seemed shy and nervous. "I thought... you were probably tired of pudding and broth, so I made these... but then I remembered your jaw's broken, so I dunno if you can eat them."

Murdock's jaw may be broken, but the smile he gives the conman practically glows. "I betcha we could make a smoothie out of 'em."

"Yeah," Face says, returning the grin and trying not to feel his heart break at the trust, the near-painful bravery and cheeriness that makes Murdock, well, Murdock. "Yeah, sounds like a plan. I'll throw 'em in the blender with some milk. Maybe even toss in a little antifreeze if you're good."

"Yum." He's drifting again, feels the dark water pulling at his toes, but this time he knows he won't drown. "Tha' souns good, Face. Good idea."

"Okay," Peck stands, carrying the plate. "Be back soon."

"Face?"

"Uh-huh?"

The voice behind him is small, almost plaintive. "No g'by kiss this time?"

Face goes completely still for an instant, standing in the doorway with the plate clutched in his hand. It's the morphine, he's sure, and Murdock probably won't remember any of this in a day or two, and what's so weird about a friendly peck on the cheek anyway? Nothing unusual, friends do that all the time. Friends don't lust after friends, he thinks glumly. I should just keep walking. Go make the smoothie, come back, give it to him, and get my mind out of the gutter. For fuck's sake, he was attacked!

"Face?" That pleading voice again, and it feels like B.A.'s van is driving back and forth across his heart. He turns.

"Sure," and he walks back over to the bed, leans down, and very, very carefully brushes his lips over Murdock's cheek, just the slightest moth-wing contact of skin, his hands very firmly occupied with the platter of pancakes.

The pilot smiles again, faintly, and settles against the pillows. Swallowing, Face straightens and walks purposefully back to the door, trying to keep his expression blank.

"Face?"

He freezes.

"...Yeah...?"

"Thanks, Face."


	6. Where'd You Go?

Face grunts as he lands on his ass in the dirt, gun jolted from his grip by the fall. He scrabbles after it, but a swift kick catches him and sends him back once more.

"Aw, jeez, right in the name!" He clutches at his jaw, feeling a couple teeth wiggle.

The Afghani soldier above him spits out a string of curses and aims another kick, but Face manages to block it and roll, reaching for his weapon. His fingers close around the grip just as he hears B.A. over the comm, informing the con man that he and Hannibal are gonna be just a little late, and they're gonna have company, and oh by the way they accidentally grabbed the wrong truck so they are now transporting a load of talking dolls instead of illegal weapons.

Face snatches the gun and fires twice. The guy looks mildly surprised at the sudden appearance of a hole in his chest before he falls. Grabbing his communicator, Face oh-so-calmly suggests that they hurry the fuck up because this place is crawling with military and he may or may not have just liberated a general's harem of wives and given them guns.

"Jesus," Hannibal yells over the sound of gunfire and screeching tires and more gunfire. "This is not going well!"

"You can say that again!" B.A. snaps.

"Face," the colonel says grimly, his sigh coming through as a rush of static, "Get to the pickup spot. We're gonna abort."

"What?" B.A.'s fury is tangible. "We can't!"

"There's no way in hell we can get back there and get that other truck now, B.A.! And if we don't get to Face soon, he's toast!"

In all the years the four of them have been together, Face has never heard orders to abandon a mission leave his commander's mouth. He's silent a moment, stunned, before he raises the comm. "Copy that, Colonel. In position."

Three hours later, the truck comes screaming to a halt at the base. Its fender falls off and a tire hisses and goes flat as the three of them disembark.

"Goddammit," Hannibal grunts as he slams the door shut. "If Salman hadn't already died a nasty, painful death by infection, I would beat him to death right now."

Bosco glowers at the world in general and limps toward the nearest medic to stitch up the bullet wound in his leg. Hannibal is silent again, and for once there is no cigar in his teeth as he walks back to the tent. Face wants nothing more than to go to the hospital, crawl into bed with Murdock, and just sleep, but visiting hours are over and he just doesn't have the energy to sneak in. In the morning, he decides. First thing in the morning.

"First thing in the morning" turns out to be 5 am when Doctor Bishop comes running into Face's tent, yelling.

"Where is he?"

"Huh?" Face rolls over and looks up, hand halfway to his gun, and frowns when he recognizes the doctor. "What's up, doc?"

"Oh, don't even try it, Lieutenant! I know he's here!" Dr. Bishop jabs a finger at Peck's nose.

His head clearing, Face sits up with a start. "Murdock's gone?"

"The hell he is!" Bishop barks.

"What happened?" Face is already pulling on his shirt and boots.

"Oh, someone mentioned your team's little whoopsie last night, and this morning when the orderly came in to check on him, he was gone! Now, where the hell do you think he would go, eh?"

"Uhh... did you check the grill outside?" Face finishes lacing his boots and realizes that he's forgotten to pull on some pants.

"Oh, come off it, Lieutenant! You're all he talks about! This is the first place he'd go!"

For a second, Face wants to grab the doc and ask what he means, what Murdock says about him, what does he mean, the first place he'd go? Instead, he shakes himself, stands in spite of his pantslessness, and steps past Bishop. "I have an idea."

~::~

Murdock is staggering toward the airfield, blinking sweat from his eyes and trying to focus on the ground as he moves his feet.

"Hold still, stupid ground," he mutters.

"Murdock!"

He turns around to see Face running toward him like the hounds of hell are after him.

"What's up, Faceman? Tell the ground to hold still, wouldja?"

Face skids to a halt and grabs the pilot's shoulders, making him flinch.

"What the HELL are you thinking?" Face is angry, Murdock realizes, actually genuinely absofuckinglutely furious. Face doesn't get angry. Face never gets angry, not even when his arm is set on fire completely by accident or he gets interrupted during his little soirees with various female military personnel (again, completely accidental). Confronted by the sudden rage in his friend's eyes, the Captain stutters an answer.

"I'm- I'm grabbin' a copter to, y'know, do a couple quick-"

"No. You're. Not." Face shakes him a little harder with each word. "You are going back to the hospital right now before you tear something or break something-"

"I ain't ever been on sick leave for more than a week, Face!"

"I know that-"

"When that fella in Columbia shot me in the arm I kept goin, didn't I? And that time we got shot down over Bolivia and I landed in that tree and broke both arms, you just made me a couple slings outta leaves and I was fine! And when that guy in Singapore busted three of my ribs with a tire iron, I still helped B.A. to defuse that bomb and carry you back to the chopper, right?"

"I don't remember your ribs being broken for that," Face says, frowning, and Murdock glances down and mutters,

"Yeah, well, I maybe might've forgot to mention it to you guys."

Peck rolls his eyes in exasperation. "Look, Murdock, let's just go back. You heard the doc, you need to heal for at least another two months."

"No!" The lunatic's pupils go wide with terrified energy. "It's been _three weeks_! Just let me fly one mission, Face, just let me help-"

"Is this because of last night?" Face loosens his grip, searching his friend's eyes. "Murdock, nobody blames you for being hurt! Jesus, man, you were tortured!"

He feels a guilty twist in his gut for saying it, but at least it seems to have gotten through; the pilot winces and looks at him.

"If-" He shudders and forces himself to continue. "If I don't start flying you guys again soon I'll get sent back to the V.A."

For a few seconds, Face can't form any words. He almost asks if Murdock is joking, but the madman's voice is so quiet and serious and so _broken_ that all Templeton can do is grab him and pull him into a hug.

The Captain freezes for a moment, stunned. Face feels his friend's arms wind slowly around his back, fingers digging between his shoulder blades. "Murdock," he whispers. "I knew you were crazy, but that's the most insane idea I've ever heard come from your whacky little head."

He feels the warm body in his hold shiver.

"You're part of the A-Team," he says, pressing his face into the Southerner's neck. "Do you really think we're gonna let anybody take you away again? Do you honestly think we're gonna let that happen? That _I'm_ gonna let that happen?" Before he knows what he's doing, he turns his head and kisses Murdock on the lips.

"Nn?" The pilot makes a slightly confused noise but no attempt to move. Three seconds later Face seems to realize what he just did. He pulls away quickly, eyes wide, and is too busy being shocked to notice that Murdock tries for an instant to follow him and reattach their mouths.

"Oh shit," Lieutenant Peck says. "Uhh- oh, fuck, Murdock, I'm s-"

"Did you mean that?"

"Huh?" Face, for once, is the one completely disarmed after just a kiss. "What?"

"Did you mean it?" Murdock repeats, those big, impossibly puppyish eyes skewering the con artist with their gaze.

"Mean- what? What I said or uh, what I did?"

"Both." The madman's brows furrow. He has a fading scrape on his left cheekbone, and his jaw is covered in scratches and bruises and he's absolutely perfect and Face notices that neither of them have removed their arms from around each other.

"I..." He swallows and murmurs, "I'm- Murdock, I- look, you know I love you. You're my best friend. My best friend in the whole world, and I'd do anything to keep you around. But-"

Murdock's face falls, and it's like a punch in the conman's stomach. Face continues, rushing and tripping over his words in a completely unromantic way.

"But the thing is, I think- I know- that I don't just love you, I'm... I'm _in_ love with you. You're so... you're amazing, and crazier than a monkey on crack, and the best pilot in the history of anything ever, and you have the most incredible smile that just drives me insane because it's like none of this, war, violence, killing and stuff, it's like none of it touches you when you smile, and I love it, I wanna wake up to that smile every morning, and after Rahim- after he... after all that, you stopped smiling like that, and that drives me even more insane, and I wanna do whatever I can to bring it back, to help you. I know you pretend everything's fine, but it's not, okay? It's definitely not, because you flinch when I put my arm around you, and you scream at night, and I want to hold you when that happens, I want to make that stop, I want to be there all night to make sure it doesn't happen. But like I said, I'd do anything to keep you around. So if you don't- if you're- if you don't feel the same way, I'll just keep doing what I do best- pretending. I can pretend that this didn't happen, and we can just go back to normal but I'd really rather not and god I feel better now that I've said all that!" He lets his breath rush out. "So, uh... yes. Yes, I meant both." He realizes that his eyes are closed; he opens them, apprehensive.

Murdock is smiling.

He's smiling, wide and joyous, and he's actually laughing a little, and Face can't help but return that smile as he asks, "What? What's so funny?"

"You sayin' all that stuff about my smile. When I was in that place, I..." he looks down for an instant, but Face catches his chin and brings his gaze back up.

"You what?"

"I kept seeing you. When it got... really bad, when he'd do stuff like the razor, you'd show up and talk me through it, kind of, or just tell me that you were coming for me, to just hang on. And I'd- I'd see your smile and everything else would just... fade." His hands tighten a little against Face's back. "You saved me, Face, before you even found me."

Face leans in and presses their foreheads together and Murdock tilts his head and kisses him again, and Peck can only moan and run his fingers through the pilot's hair as their lips part and their tongues meet. It lasts for hours and seconds, for eternity and the blink of an eye, and it's perfect, it's everything. Too soon, Murdock pulls away and glances down.

"You're not wearin' pants."

"Uhh, no. No I am not."

The Captain laughs again, softly, then winces as a jolt of pain reminds him that the morphine is wearing off. Face notices and winds an arm under his friend's armpits, supporting him.

"Let's get you back to bed, okay?"

Murdock looks crestfallen again. "I don't wanna go back to the hospital. It's boring."

"Now, who said anything about going back to the hospital?" Templeton grins. "We're going back to the tent. I told you- I plan on being there for you all night, and I can't do that in the hospital."

Sighing, the pilot lays his head on Face's shoulder as they hobble back toward the base. "I like your plans, Face."


End file.
